


Of Kings and Trolls

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2010-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:58:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3726235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when two trolls both claim the kingship? The Continuing Saga of Ollie and Basil.  **Each chapter is a complete mini-story in itself, though they are in order time-wise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Mine!  No, It's MINE!

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

To the east groups of trees huddle together; their normally lengthy shadows are completely swallowed by the thick darkness of the night. The clouds have assembled for a mighty struggle, gainsaying all form of light to pass through their grey mass. Could it be this veil of black which drapes this land in the folds of an intense foreboding? Something appears amiss... something feels wrong. Is it the woods to the east? But no sounds comes from there. Then perhaps the peril lurks in the west? Yet the bridge keeps watch over these shores, surely... Harken! A dull sound rises from the pools of utter silence. A figure presents itself at the far western end of the bridge. It walks eastwards with a lengthy stride, producing a steady thuds of heavy feet upon wood.  
  
Footsteps that echo in the hollow beneath the bridge and along the shore a little ways to where a dark lumpish form squats bored and disconsolate. Oliver stirs at the water with a long stick and mutters to himself. "Nuffink t'do an' isn't no dinners an'..." He stops abruptly, tilting his head towards the sound. A cunning smile warps his face, revealing broken rotting teeth, and then he scrambles up the pebbly slope to the road. Rocks bounce down the incline behind him and splash into the river.  
  
The splash makes the approaching figure stand still... but not for long! The tall and broad form springs to action quickly! The pace of thuds increases as the unknown person makes a rush towards the source of the splashes. "W'o's there?!" booms a low voice.  
  
"Oo's th..." comes a gravelly echo, bit off mid-word. A crease wrinkles itself into Oliver's craggy face and he lifts a stubby forefinger to rub at one ear. "Tha's what I is saying," he complains. "/I/ says, 'Oo's there.' An' yer says, 'I's there' an' I says, 'Yer stops. Can' go 'cross.'" He stops triumphantly. So there.  
  
The other, obviously another troll, seems to consider these statements. But a vigorous shake of the head shows his opinion, "Dats not rig't! I says w'oose there! Yer mistaken, bloody muggins, yer speakin ter a king so a-listen ter me I says!" Basil grunts after his little speech, folding his arms in anxious anticipation. That's how things are!  
  
Ollie is already shaking his own head. "No!" he insists. "I says it! Yer wasn't list... king? King o what?" Suspicion furrows around small eyes. "This 'ere's MY bridge, yer can' have it."  
  
What's that?! Someone opposing Basil's will? That most certainly will not do, oh no! "Yer BRIDGE?! Dis be part of me kingdem! Yer a rottin stinkin liar!" temper flaring the troll points to the west, "T'em woods is mine an the 'ills!" It seems the Olog has already enslaved Chetwood and Weathertop, "I is thinkin ter see me kingdom, mindin me ahn kingy business an t'ere yer is!"  
  
Suspicion deepens, flashing into outrage. "MINE!" Oliver rumbles, clenching his fists, and jutting his chin forward. "Dark thing gives it to OLLIE! Says, Ollie guard bridge. Don' let nobody cross. Eats 'em all!" He takes a belligerant step forward, and squints his beady eyes. "MY bridge, MY cave. Yer is /stealin'/!"  
  
"I IS W'AT?!" Basil practically roars now, eyes bulging, foam starting to seep from the corners of his lips, "I aint stealin nuttink! Yer snivellin weasel! W'oose yer ter speak ter a king like dat?! I says yer the t'ief! No black t'ings 'round ter be 'andin aht bridges as presents!"  
  
The smaller troll glares back, fury over-riding anything like common sense that he may ever had possessed. "IS NOT!" he bellows. "YER is thievin'!" The incessent repetitions from Basil seem to drive him mad, for he gives up on words and shrieks: a wordless infuriated howl; and leaning forward, he tucks his head and charges. "GERRRROOOFFFFFFF!!"  
  
Basil probably has not been king for too long, not used to this form of insolence of supposedly LOYAL subjects! And so nothing in the wonderful world of the Troll Shaws could have prepared him for this sneaky assault, aimed to overthrow his dignity, authority, and... himself! With a blind thought the Olog throws his arms forward to shield himself against the stampeding Oliver. But the bridge is too small to dodge the attack. Although he is bigger than the other, Basil wobbles on his feet when Ollie rams into him. He falls, landing ungraciously on his behind. Uttering a string of swears, the only other form of offensive tactics come in form of a right foot which makes a wild sweep towards the other troll's legs.  
  
Alas for momentum. Oliver's thundering charge checks as he crashes into Basil, but the smaller troll is only deflected, not halted. The din of his pounding feet recede into the distance; it is mid-span before he manages to stop himself and turn around. Stopping to see if he had succeeded would be the smart thing to do here... so Oliver, of course, simply starts running again, head lowered for use as a battering ram.  
  
Meanwhile King Basil is able to gather what is left of his regal dignity and makes a desperate plea to his wits. His eyes seek and find Oliver, and they widen as they spy the danger. His brain succeeds, if barely, to have Basil realize he is at a disadvantage lying on his backside on a small bridge with on two ends water. As trolls are not particularly known for taking baths, the Olog's reluctance to have one now is understandable. His opponent leaves him no time to stand up and properly fight and defend, so Basil must improvise... With a loud battle roar (something close to: OEEEWAAAARRRTAAAAAKAAAA!) he goes on the counter-offensive, starting his impersonation of a rolling barrel. Over and over he tumbles, picking up some speed.

Oliver, in his turn, apparently hasn't yet realized how difficult it can be to head-butt someone who is sitting on the ground. Or rolling, as the case may be. He gains speed and steam, charging blindly towards his foe. The ear-assaulting clamor of two trolls, both screeching at the top of their lungs; the pounding of mighty feet; the clatter of stony skin against an ancient bridge... they are joined by the earth-shattering sound of Oliver slamming onto the floor of the bridge as he trips over an unforeseen menace.  
  
Succeeding in tackling his foe (be it one way or the other) King Basil lets out a cry; it starts as vibrant euphoric, transforming rapidly in a high-pitched scream of terror! The collision with Ollie has spun Basil the barrel off course! Where he was crossing the bridge in a straight line at first, he now finds himself closing in on the right edge! "I CAN NAY STOP AN SWIM!!!" he yelps, but his fate is inevitable. And with a loud SPLASH at least one troll's temper is forcefully cooled down.  
  
There is silence. Then Oliver pushes himself dazedly up, and peers blearily along the now-empty span of the bridge. He blinks, uncrossing his eyes. Nope. Still no one in sight. Hah. The interloper has been vanquished! Triumphant, Oliver wobbles towards shore.  
  
All is not so well in the river. Frantically Basil flaps with his massive arms to stay afloat, and miraculously the Olog does not sink. Comprehension slowly, very slowly dawns on the king and with a blink of his eyes he suddenly stops flapping. His head sticks out of the water, the river is not deep enough here to drown a troll of Basil's size. A small fountain sprays from the Troll-King's lips. Dumb-founded his hands reach for the bridge, as he attempts to pull himself out of the water.  
  
A small sound reaches Oliver's ringing ears. He pauses, then peers over the edge of the bridge. There is a troll-head in the water. Oliver pats his own head gently, squeezes his eyes closed, then looks again. "What is yer doin' down there?" he asks confusedly. "'As yer lost yerselfs?"  
  
His senses dulled by the cold water, Basil looks up to Ollie and nods, his chin breaking the surface of the water, "Oy! I fell in 'ere! Dun like it much! Can yer 'elp me aht right quick! Me ears is gettin wet!" not entirely freed of his panic the troll clings to the edge of the bridge for dear life.  
  
Ollie shakes his head gravely, winces and stops. "Dat's bad," he agrees. ""Ere, yer should go off that a-ways." He leans over a bit, and points to Basil's left.  
  
Basil has little choice other then doing what Ollie says, no matter how discomforting the thought and it probably helps that he is a troll himself. He moves to the left not entirely sure what he is supposed to do there, "Den w'at?! I can feel dat water drippin from me nose!" he warns, "An som'tin is a-ticklin at me feet!"

The sound of harsh voices and violent splashing drives away many creatures of the dark forest. But it also attracts some. Lurking from the east comes a small shadow of evil intent. The slight clink of chain against chain echos softly through the air as a tall orc slips from the edge of the trees. His stick poking into the ground as he hobbles forward. Then he sits close enough to see the scene and lets out a laugh, "AHrarharhar! Whatcha doin'? Fishin?" he calls out, feeling safe enough from this distance.  
  
The other troll shuffles eastwards. "Keep goin'!" he urges. "See, yer is close on ter that there rock bit. Yer can grabs at it!" A convulsive shudder racks his massive frame. Water! Dripping from his NOSE. He wipes his own face carefully, just in case, and then curiosity takes over. "Wha's it like? Is it nasty and ... fishes? Has yer got a fishes? Gimme some!"  
  
Waddling onward by Ollie's instructions, Basil makes difficult noises. He sputters, splutters, snorts, heaves great and deep breaths, blows water into all directions and makes uncontrolled gestures with his arms. No, trolls were definitely not bred to thrive in water. "It's wet! Wot else!" grunts the kingly troll, but the mention of fish does brighten his mood a little. "Lemme check!" he shouts to Oliver, and oh so carefully (and reluctantly) he sticks one arm under water, reaching for his toes. "I fink I gots sum'tin.... keeps wrigglin... mebbe we needs bait ter get more fis'es!" he suggests casting a furtive look at the laughing orc.  
  
The orc may not be the smartest creature in the world, but it is immensely more brilliant than a dim troll. So Cadi'lagz sees the look of the bathing troll and spits onto the ground, "Yer don't catch fish that way. Yer use a spear! And yer don't thrash about like some fat fool!"

The orc, whose snide comment has wound its way into Oliver's conversation, now becomes the object of the troll's attention. "More fishes," Oliver agrees and starts to waddle towards Cadi'lagz. "I gets 'im," he assures Basil. "We gets LOTS of fishes." Utterly and sublimely ignoring the orc's babbling voice, he trundles off the end of the bridge onto dry ground.  
  
"Ar'right!" Basil mumbles, but his attention is elsewhere, namely in the river. His groping fingers get hold of something... with a gleam in his eyes he pulls up his hand and presents a flabbergasted fish, "I GOTS UN!" Overjoyed with the prospect of more fish, the troll reaches for the rock Ollie pointed out to him. Reaching firmer soil walking becomes easier and Basil's mighty torso emerges from the river.  
  
"O! An me says yer can 'ave yer bridge an dat side of the land!" the Olog shouts at Ollie, "I dun needs it ennymore. I gots me enuff ter do t'ere." With his free hand he gestures to the west.  
  
The orc stars backing up, raising his stick and pointing it at the troll, "Back to the bridge! Yer breakin' yer job! Yer can't leave the bridge! Get back!" he says rapidly, spittle flying from his mouth as his tongue occasionally loses control. Then, seeing the troll has a fish, he points to the troll in the water, "He's gonna eat the fish! He's got a fish! Bait is a trick to you!"  
  
Ollie 's feet slow. He peers over his shoulder, the wariness almost perfunctory these days, then speeds up again. "I is stopping you," he points out with a toothy grin. Contemptuously, he adds, "O' course he gots a fish, yer the one what said so. An' we's getting MORE fish." With an avaricious gleam in his eye, he heads towards the orc.  
  
Happy for the moment with his current catch, Basil gets out of the horrible clean water. With his behind firmly on the eastern shore he watches the exchange between Ollie and the orc. "Oy! We shares fis'es ter set the promise! Yer gets dis side an I gets the ot'er!"  
  
Cadi'lagz has seen Trolls run before, and they run fast, but there is always a trick or two up his sleeve, or lack of sleeves. He reaches for his belt and pulls out a very shiny piece of metal, it's flat and looks like a coin. He flicks it from his thumb toward the troll, "Catch! It's a curse!" and he turns and runs away from the Troll, leaving the coin flipping in the air toward Ollie.  
  
Something glitters in the faint light, and Oliver halts to watch it. It spins, dips and, hitting the ground, bounces and rolls downhill. Towards the water. Alarmed, suddenly, the troll scurries after this possible treasure, snatching it up just before it hits the river. He holds it up close to one eye and then ducks into the darkness under the bridge. "I be's back..." his voice echoes out.

And so everyone goes his way. This includes Basil who stands up, fish still firmly clutched, "Time ter return to me kingdem!" and humming a false loud tune he crosses the bridge to disappear westwards, heading towards the weatherhills.


	2. Another Day, Another Problem

A little while ago, the last evil burning rays of the sun slid behind the highest western hill, and shadows took full possession of the tangled forests of Yfeldom. The last of the day-dwellers head sleepily towards their homes, the first of the night-dwellers passing them with twitching cautious noses. Twilight...  
  
Oliver sits under the bridge, leaning back against the stone and dirt beside the fetid hole leading to his cave, and chews on a bone. It's not a very good bone, having spent the past few nights in exactly this same activity, and is now rutted and scarred with tooth-marks. But Oliver doesn't seem to care. He hums idly to himself, now and then stirring a careless finger through a heap of trash beside him.  
  
Noises in the west speak rudely of someone not yet quite there. However, judging the rapidly increasing volume of ruckus, it will not take long before a visitor comes in sight. And verily! Lo and behold! Another Olog comes thrashing through the weather hills. His pace is wobbly, but his feet are big so he goes places fast anyways. He minds little to nothing on his rampant way to the bridge. And when still several feet away, his heavy booming voice graces the night sky, as lithe as a tornado, as vibrant as a rusty saw, and as eloquent as a beheaded goblin, "KING! KING OF THE EAST!" *thud* *thud* *thud* Basil runs faster, "I need yers! W'ere's yer at!"  
  
The thundering progress of the troll shakes loose a few pebbles and sends a small cascade of dirt down Oliver's ear. He tips his head back, shaking it to loosen a rock that has gotten stuck, and peers upwards. "'Oo?" he asks interestedly, then points out, "Yer is dropping rocks on me head." His probing hand finds something in the trash heap, and comes out: a fist wrapped triumphantly about a mostly suffocated mouse. In the palm of a creature some ten feet high, a single mouse could be entirely lost, but not if that creature is a troll. Food is food, no matter how small. "I's down here!" Oliver raises his voice to a bellow, and pops the rodent into his mouth.  
  
"Yer's w'ere?!" bellows an almost similar voice, truly be gifted those few linguists able to keep trolls apart by voice! But... as Basil crosses the bridge, there is something strange... something out of the ordinary... something normally not there. *thud* *thud* *boink* *thud* *thud* *boink* It is as if something or someone - heavy judging the BOINK - is following the Olog! "I cannay find yer! Bloody muggins!"  
  
"Down 'ERE!" Oliver directs, around the mouse, and swallows. "Yer comes down 'ERE!" He stirs around in his pile again.  
  
Some well known (famous in certain regions) troll curses voice Basil's opinion of these directions, "I aint a barker yer know! Ter trust on me nose ter sniff yer aht from miles distance!" *thud* *thud* *boink* Then suddenly a large shadow is cast near Ollie's perch, "Aaa'! T'ere yer be! Filthy bugger, 'idin' yer good stuff oy?!" Basil was staring downwards, peeking over the edge, his beady eyes searching.  
  
Suddenly suspicious, Oliver scrabbles around, fat hands hurriedly shoving most of the pile whole-sale down the black hole; while with his body he attempts to hide his actions. And his treasures. "Is not!" he says, though it is patently obvious he lies. "Go 'way! I is havin' me dinner."  
  
Beady eyes narrow at this order, fortunately Basil was never talented in obedience. Conveniently he ignores Ollie's request, as he explains to him, "Get up 'ere right quick! Fill yer tummy later, I gots ter talk to yer, King terKing! We gots trouble a-brewin'!" a short silence follows, quickly followed by: "It gots ter do with food!"  
  
The other troll pays no attention to most of Basil's speech, being occupied in securing his horde. But 'food'. Ah now, that is a word to catch Oliver's ear. He gives a hasty scoop, sending the last of the refuse sliding into blackness and waddles to the edge of the overhang, peering upwards - nearly eye-to-eye with Basil looking downwards. "What sort of food? Has yer got some? Is it tasty?"  
  
"Tasty?!" Basil inquires, and a huge bump - an Olog nose - appears under the beady eyes. Audibly it sniffs the air, then it stops, "Oo yer means me food?! Course tis tasty! Forest food!" Nodding at this, the Olog explains no further about the food, emitting a snarl, "Its those damn gobbers! They is stealin' it'll! Keeps a-killin an' eatin me food. I betcher them is doin it ter yer kin'dem too!"  
  
"STEALIN'??" Oliver's head disappears, only to return a moment later, topped by a dented and tarneshed kettle. The rusty handle swings in a squeaky loop near one ear. He scrambles up the steep, pebbly slope to the level of the road. Clearly, /this/ is something that needs taking care of. "'Oo is stealing Ollie's food!?!"  
  
"Them GOBBERS!" Basil growls, quickly scrambling back to his feet. With one hand he scratches the greasy tangle on his head, as the other taps on something behind him, a wooden object which is tied to the Olog with a rope. "I says we needs ter fink fer a few!" Quite an astonishing thing to say for this species. But pushing the wooden object back, Basil appears earnest.He heaves his bottom high in the air and then plants it firmly on his wooden shadow... making it a chair of sorts. Admittedly the thing has some sort of handles to the right and left, and several boards of differing length form the backsupport. A wobbly cross forms the basic support upon which rests several pieces of lumber to create a very uncomfortable seat. The Olog seems not to mind, twisting and turning a bit, "Yus, yus." he starts, and his voice sounds a bit different... more solemn, KINGLY! "Yus, gobbers, them is wreckin me place. Them comes from yer bridge ter me woods an' hills eatin me food, lookin fer me an me 'oards!"  
  
Thinking is not something most trolls are adept at. "Where is they?" Oliver bellows, turning around in a ponderous circle and peering suspiciously at everybush. One hand clutches a huge tree limb, fashioned into a club of sorts, by the branches having been torn off, and one end roughly smoothed down by some manner of tool, probably a rock. Three-quarters of the way around his circle, his eyes land on Basil's ... throne, and bulge. "There... there is a thing eatin' up yer rear," he points out, after several minutes of mindless boggling.  
  
 "I dunnay w'ers them at!" Basil grunts in regal manner, and oh so subtly he places a hand under his chin, placing his elbow on his knee. So lost in his attempts to frown he remains almost entirely oblivious of Ollie's words... But he recovers aptly! "ME REAR?!" he jumps up, both his hands flying to his behind, touching it all over. Relief surges across his crude face, "Looks ter be all t'ere..." he mumbles. His eyes fall on his thrown, "Yer tries it! Its me kingy-chair! Good fer finkin!"  
  
Oliver watches the transformation from dangerous beast to chair with astonishment. He tries to scratch his head with one stubby finger, but is foiled by the pot that slides greasily back and forth atop his skull. Basil's generous offer only causes him to back away a pace or two, just to be safe. But, as always, his mind swings ever and again to the only important thing in life: dinner. "Yer said food," he reminds the other troll.  
  
Basil watches Ollie with interest, making a face when the other steps back. Then the magic word is spoken: FOOD! The effect on trolls is both versatile and immediate. Basil leaps forward and is about to answer... when he is hit from behind! With a curse and a swear Basil wheels around and tries to kick the troll-throne, "STOP DOIN THAT!" But the throne is quick on its wobbly feet and darts around the Olog, spurred onward by the rope which connects them.  
  
"Yes," Oliver says happily, lost in dreams of dinners. Rabbits, and orcs and sheeps and deer and even, dare he think it? Manflesh! Basil's predicament jars him from these pleasant reflections though, and, being the loyal comrade that he is, it is only a moment before he leaps into action. "It is gonna bite you!" he yells, warningly. "Don' worry though, Ollie gets it!" He swings his club up over his head and brings it slamming down towards the rickety 'throne'.  
  
React first, look later, is a well known lesson in troll education. And so as Ollie warns him of danger, Basil is so kind as to take it seriously and leaps again from his current position. However, due to the Ologs' impeccable timing, when Basil jumps, Ollie hits... The throne is splintered to many, many, many pieces! Such a master-piece, lost! What's worse, no longer is there a rope tied to a weight to hold Basil back, and so his leap takes him farther then anticipated. He topples slightly forward, his head proving heavier than his feet. Headbutting the ground the troll's first cries are muffled...

The danger is averted, the beast (whatever it was) smashed into smithereens. Oliver lowers his club complacently, and bends over Basil. "Yer can gets up," he tells the other troll. "Yer is safe now, it can' bites yer no more. Ollie has killed it." He pokes at the wreckage with the end of his stick. "It don't look very tasty though... I thinks it must 'ave been old an' scrawny-like."  
  
A bit of a struggle before Basil flops back up, his face covered in dirt, grass protruding from his nose and mouth. Spitting it all out he nods vigorously at Ollie's assessment, "Yer right! Dun taste dat great!" If he mourns the loss of his throne, this graceful King shows it not! He remains the cheery monarch, "Most green thingers aint tasty I says. But now we better get a-crackin an' a-killin some gobbers. Them is still eatin all the food. They dunnay want ter give it up, even when I tells 'm!" Hate lights Basil's eyes, angry at such a lack of respect, "I fink them is in yer kingdem." he points east, "Iffin yer dun mind I wants ter help punish 'm." he swings his mace from his side, patting the big blunt upper end in his one hand.  
  
Oliver turns and scents the air. "They is here?" he asks, over his shoulder, but doesn't wait for an answer. Lifting his club, he settles it over one shoulder and starts a slow lumbering run towards the east. "We gets 'em!" he shouts to the dark trees. "We finds 'em and kills 'em and eats 'em!"  
  
With a mighty roar: OOOOOAAAAAAAAAAG! Basil hurries after Ollie. And thus the two noble Kings go to war! Ruthless gobbers beware, yer reign of tyranny shall soon be at an end! Both trolls disappear into the woods, looking for orc. And brave be the orc who now dares to cross the path of this dashingly rampant duo.


	3. One Good Turn Deserves Another

A vast midnight sky glitters with cold stars - clear and simple in comparison to the twisted tangled mass of trees below where darkness, not light, rules. And it is not a still or sterile darkness either. Shadows creep beneath the trees, swarm in the hollows and folds of the uneven land, swoop down upon the hapless. Glowing eyes blink, then move. In something close to silence, broken only occasionally by a distant roar or despairing cry, the creatures of the night hunt... and feed.  
  
Beside the great expanse of a bridge, comfortably enfolded in the pleasant sounds of the forest, Oliver hums happily. There are no words to his song, not a surprising thing as his mouth is crammed full of semi-roasted deer-meat. A small fire crackles beside him, singing the hair on the torn remnants of a stag that lies half-in, half-out of the flames and burns. And occasionally, a louder snatch of melody brightens the night as the troll swallows, leans forward and rips another hunk of meat from the corpse. All is well in the Shaws tonight.  
  
And a truly blessed night it is to be graced by one of the most wondrous phenomenon in the whole of Middle Earth - troll verse. Can there be a greater art? Surely not... Thus doubly blessed are those prowling the forest at this hour, for there is another voice... In the distance, at first vague, yet growing more solid and firm! Oh what magnifence! It seeks to enhance the verse of the dining Olog!  
  
Where the first delivers a wordless melody - poetry stripped of direct purpose, thus emphasizing the abstract grandeur - the other proffers a low-voiced interpretation of this song in making! Be silent now, ye wayward traveller and let the beauty of it all engulf and swallow you whole!

"Boooom Boooom Booom!  
Back a-comes the King-Basil!  
Boooom Boooom Boooom!  
Aw, ooo, ew, drool, drizzle, dazzle!"  
  
Yet here the voice trails off, the song momentarily lost in the folds of night. Until... "Oeioy! King! W'eres yer at! I is 'ungry!"  
  
Ollie looks up from his feasting and eyes the half-deer nervously. It seems his small beady eyes are frantically calculating: is there enough for company? For a minute, his hands twitch, as if they will snatch the precious meat away, hiding it under a rock or in a hole until Basil has gone again; but then his full belly counsels generosity. Or, well, /some/ generosity. The remaining haunch of the torn beast is ripped away and stashed in the safest place possible: underneath Oliver himself, and then the troll replies to his comrade. "I is over 'ere!!"  
  
Basil needs no further encouragement then this sign of acknowledgement. With a few big steps he adds himself to Ollie's company. Without asking (as proper trolls are wont to do) Basil aims his fat behind at a spot near his fellow King, "Aaa! Time fer some nosh I says! Nice un yer got 'ere. Been walkin a ways I 'as," and as if this is reason enough, the Olog tears off a piece of meat and starts munching vigorously.  
  
Ollie nods complacently. "Good un, ain' it?" he says, and pulls a long strip of half-charred hide from the roast, chewing on it contentedly. "I done found it over there, like." And he waves a greasy blood-smeared hand vaguely towards the black trees beyond. "Where yer been 'iding at?" he asks after a time spent gnawing at the skin.  
  
Coughing up some chips of bone Basil clears the contents of his mouth and spits at the fire, "'Ere an there, we kings gots no time ter rest." he waves towards the west and northwest, "I runs into some of me servants. They is pretty nice I tells yer! Be a-givin me free food an all dat! An den they wents away ter leave me ter me dinner. Them knows 'ow its done fine an proper!" Excited with his tale the Olog is waving his hands around like a renegade windmill, sending pieces of sinew, meat and grease everywhere.  
  
"Free food?" This is a phrase guaranteed to catch the attention of /any/ troll, and Oliver is no exception. His deep-set eyes glitter greedily, and he leans forward, forgetful of the haunch of meat he is hiding. A bony knob pokes out behind... "Where is yer finding free food? Were it tasty? Wi' saahl?" In his eagerness, he almost topples over into the fire.  
  
"Coulda 'ave cooked longer, I says," Basil explains, narrowing his eyes in an effort to recall this particular piece of morsel, "Some nice flavor, think it be s'eep or 'opper meat. They puts lotsa stuff over it, dunnay if it was any saahlty." shrugging the Olog lowers his eyes, "Yer needs ter try an find yer servants. They be bound ter be wanderin in yer kingdem. An..." Dark eyes bulge, resizing from tiny platters to bigsized plates! "Wots dat?!" an accusing finger points at Olliver's bottom and the treasure it covers, "Its eatin at yer bottoms!"  
  
Oliver nods, once... again... a third time, his eyes fixed on the other troll, his jowls wobbling with each movement of his head. And so intently does he listen that his enormous bulk scoots further towards Basil with each word. "Meat..." he repeats, and "...saahhl..." and "...kingd.... WHAT?" The peace of the night is broken, nay, shattered by a panic-stricken shriek. Oliver leaps to his feet, stumbling over the ripped carcass of the deer, and whirls around and around in a vain attempt to see his own rear.  
  
But Basil is a friend and friends help friends!  
... Right?  
With a fierce grunt the Olog presents his mace, "Yer 'old right still, Ollie! I saves yer bottoms! Not ter worry! Looks ter be some snivellin monster! Musta come from the ground!" expectantly Basil looks round but finds no more of these 'monsters'. Shrugging he swings his mace backwards eyeing Olliver's bottom with great interest. "Stop yer mad 'opping!"  
  
"NOOoooo!" wails the smaller troll. "It's a-eatin' me up, I c'n FEELS it!" And he spins around again, chin cranked over his shoulder, eyes staring wildly downwards. But such acrobatics, by a creature unfitted for ballet by birth and inclination both, are bound to end in disaster. And disaster comes swift and sure to the table. Ollie trips over his own feet, tries to regain his balance but only stumbles further as a purloined bone raps at one ankle. And headlong into the fire, he falls, where wails are replaced by yelps and a look of distinct betrayal. Rolling away from the burning coals, for they can be swift when needed, these creatures of stone, Oliver sits in the dirt and nurses his burnt hand. "Yer eats sticks an' things!" he yells at the fire. "'E said so! Yer doesn't eat OLLIE!"  
  
Deprived of a target, Basil redirects his aim to the fire, "Aye! Stop 'arassin kings yer cracklin cacklin coocoo!" and with a WOOSH and a SMASH, followed by a HISH, the coals are launched... If the troll thought with this effort he has bested the flames, he is very much mistaken. The orange foe now starts a counter attack, flaming bits and pieces trying to glue themselves to anything that burns - this happens to include troll hair. Scorching and licking the coals slowly burn their way into skin. With a yelp Basil spies his peril and he now starts a frantic hop of his own.  
  
"Don' make it mad!" Oliver shrieks at his fellow-monarch, but it is too late. Splattering embers arch through the air, burning where-ever they touch. Ollie scrambles backwards hurriedly, travelling crabwise, on feet and hands; but small conflagrations start up around him, and he finally thinks to get to his feet, fumbling for the nearest log with which to fight this new foe. "WATCH OUT!" he hollers to Basil, pounding vigorously at a small patch of burning grass. "IT'S 'TTACKIN' YER!!"  
  
"I KNOWS YER BLOODY MUGGINS! KILL IT!" Basil roars as he starts to punch himself with his free hand, while his mace weaves a dangerous tapestry of haphazard strikes at everything that is remotely orange and flaming hot, "ITS EATIN YER KINGDEM! MUST BE MEGGIC! WE NEED THE TROLL WIZZERD LOKE!" another whirl takes the Olog somewhat out of reach of the shower of coals and ashes, nonetheless it is doing a fine job of devouring Olliver's dining area.  
  
Animals freeze, then flee. Trees quiver at their roots, swaying uneasily. Owls and bats swoop higher. For who would remain nearby when two trolls battle? Shadows flicker, driven back by leaping flames, but at last Oliver's pounding club smashes the last ember into sullen ash, and he leans on the length of wood surveying the charred circle glumly. "Whad'yer wanner go an' do that for?" he complains. "Yer went an' made me cookin' fire all mad and how'm I s'posed t'be cookin' me dinners now?" But then his eyes widen - a scrap of meat remains from the charred carcass of the hapless deer! He pounces, gnaws, then settles himself more comfortably. There are few woes a bit of food cannot cure.  
  
But Basil does not ease his panic, on the contrary! "Dun sit an eat, yer fat pig! We is bein cursed, cursed I tells yer! Fire attackin us, aint normal! It dunnay do dat! Iffin yer be a-askin me someone is after us. Some sneakin cheatin cowerin weasel, 'idin, tryin ter kill us. The Kings!" with a quick run the Olog distances himself from the disaster area, "I aint stayin ter find out if dis be meggic! Yer 'ear! Meggic is a-dangerous! I is gonner find Loke, 'e knows wot ter do now! Iffin yer smart yer comes!" Quickly Basil disappears to the west, away from the cursed bridge!  
  
A smoldering acrid smell - that of old smoke and charred wood and singed hair - is born along what little breeze there is this chill night. Black and gnarled,   
the trees crouch low around, their branches snarling overhead and blocking the faint starlight. Glum and morose, a huge shape sits on the ground and pokes a bit of a branch at an ember that still glows ever so faintly red - the last remains of his lovely cook fire. "Yer is s'posed ter eats," Oliver mumbles unhappily. "Eats woods." He jabs at the coal with the end of his branch. In an uneven circle around him, burned spots show up black against the dirt and snow, and a scrap of deerhide lies against a rock.  
  
Perhaps Cadi'lagz's mood could be because of his recent run in with a non-king Troll, or perhaps it was the taste of human blood that still lingers on his lips, or maybe it's just the lovely darkness of night. Whatever the reason, he feels bold and care free, and so when he stumbles upon the "king" and his fire, his lips curl into a sneer and he calls out from the darkness of the southern tree line, "Problem with your heating, oh gloooorious king?"  
  
Oliver, having just devoured more than half a stag, is not particularly hungry. And so it is, that when a perfectly good dinner wanders into his living room, he does not instantly give chase. Besides, he has other important matters on his mind. "It were that Bazil," he replies mournfully. "Made it mad, 'e done. Chopping and bashing and ever'thing. 'E oughter stay on 'is own side of ther bridge." He pokes at the faint glow again, fruitlessly. "An' look," he complains at the unseen speaker. "It won' eat nothin'."  
  
A faint chuckle turns into a laugh as the orc listens to the much larger troll talk, "You made the mistake of trusting that big other one. I seen him keeping all the good food away. And he secretly steals from your side all the time!" Cadi'lagz says, scraping at the side of his tree with his mace, still keeping quite a cowardly distance.  
  
A sly look crosses Oliver's face, his lips curving into a parody of a smile. And stealthily, he feels about beneath himself, fat hands patting carefully at the ground. "'E don't," he says and his voice is thick with gloating. Thick fingers close at last about something hidden by the bulk of the troll, and Oliver nods his head, pleased. And his eyes fall on the single coal again. "'Ere you," he orders abruptly. "Stop yer blabbin' an' c'mere an' make this eat."  
  
Cadi'lagz comes out of the trees, his hand low, keeping his mace ready as he eyes the huge mountain. A distrustful gleam in his eye comes around as he looks at the Troll then the almost-dead fire. The shaman has several tricks for such things and so he does a little rustling in his belly-bag and pulls out a handful of yellow grass, "So don't believe in the large eats in your lands that the Basil troll hides from you?"  
  
Ollie heaves himself onto one haunch, working the hindquarter of a deer out from beneath his ample rear. "'E ain't keepin' all ther foods," he says, waving the bloody haunch in the air as proof. "Ollie hides it!" Clearly, he is very proud of his sneakiness. The small amount of puny-looking grass in the orc's hand is eyed doubtfully. "They eats woods," he says obstinately. "Ther other one said so. Wotcher doin with that there bitty stuff?"  
  
A casual roll of the eyes is Cadi'lagz's response and he sets the dry yellow grasses down onto the coal. Soon grey smoke starts to form, and then the orc begins to blow dry against it slowly. This is strange grass and instead of shrivelling it ignites. A quick flame that starts to consume it all quickly, but in that moment the orc takes a small branch and lights it, letting it burn that way before adding another stick. Then he looks up and seems to be about to explain the concept and simply settles for, "Magic food."  
  
Oliver stares, impressed, and a look of great respect crosses his lumpy face. "Bazil says 'majik'," he muses, then swivels his head to stare at the shaman consideringly. "Yer gives me some!" he says, eyes sliding from the now merrily burning fire (resurrected! From the DEAD!) to the worker of the miracle. And the thoughts run clear for all to read across his face: Ollie the Majikal Troll! Ollie the Maker of Fires! Ollie THE KING!

"I can't," Cadi'lagz says simply, backing away from the fire, and making sure to keep its burning flames between him and the monsterous rock. The orc scratches his head and then explains in a much more frightened voice than he had before, "The stink elfs have it! Hundreds of em are down south the river! And theys have a password or they kill ya! Thaz how I got the magic food the first time!"  
  
A scowl begins to descend, turning Oliver's cheerful countenance to one of storms and threats. "CAN'T?" he rumbles angrily and begins to shove himself upright, when he is arrested by the orc's next words. "Elfs?" he asks. "There is elfs?" Flat nostrils flare as the troll tips his head back and inhales deeply. "I doesn't smells them..."  
  
"That's because of the storm! They is there! South there! You can hear them shouting and singing. It is disgusting! But they have lots of the magic. I saw two run back fast past their stinky river. I followed the tracks, and saw lots! Enough meat on them for you to eat for one year!" Cadi'lagz says, pointing southward as he scowls and glares. His anger at the stupid ruler shining through again. "But you should sing their songs to get close! They say 'Her Door' and then 'Lard Ale Round' it is the password!"  
  
A deep and thoughtful look furrows itself into Oliver's brow. "I c'n sings," he offers after a time, and lifts his voice to prove it. The notes do not exactly approach anything that might be considered a tune, though they are sung one after the other as if they were. "Elfs is tasty," he says after a bit more strenuous thought. He bends, scooping the flames into his empty helmet and securing it to his belt, wanders southwards, muttering to himself, "Her door lard ale round. Hair door lard ale round. Hair door lard iller ound..."

**I should translate here... Hair Door Lard Ale Round = Herdir, Lord Elrond.


	4. Sheep Stealers!

It is dark, yes because it is no longer day! Therefore no foul sun to force her fiery nose into matters she has no remote right to know!  
  
Secure by this knowledge no doubt a big form nestles itself in and through the cosy veil of night. Such finely crude features can only mean one thing - one of the wonderful Olog has decided to grace the world with its presence! Indeed it is Basil who walks about, mace firm in the one hand, while he drags a tree behind him with the other. His path is uncertain as he seems to walk from out of the northern hills towards the south - yet his feet waver east and west as if not entirely convinced what path they seek!  
  
Beady black eyes watch this procession with great and lazy interest; but at last Oliver bestirs himself. "Whatcher got there?" he asks. "Saahl? Ollie gots lots."  
  
As if stung by a most foul thing, Basil's head jerks up. His eyes grow big and wide - if not innocent, somehow that part does not befit a troll proper - and the really sharp observer may have seen the teensy small leap the behemoth makes. Yet none of this stands when Basil spots the source of his blatant discomfort. "Gaaah! Yer is spookin me. Stop dat or I gives yer a thumpin!" grumbles the bigger troll. Then his eyes dart towards the tree in his hand, he almost sulks, "Dis... be a tree. I thinks 'bout ter eats it. I cannay find me better nosh. Sum fattie been eatin it all, I figgers yer no king ennymores 'ere?!" rather quickly Basil throws down the tree and himself, landing with a light tremor of the ground.  
  
A light gleams in Oliver's eyes and he stares at the tree trunk thoughtfully. "Is it tasty?" he asks hopefully, shoving himself a little more upright from where he reclines. "Feeds it saahl?" But the higher culinary matters of tree-cookery are obliterated by the horrible news Basil brings. "Oo's eatin' Ollie's food?!" the smaller troll roars, sitting bolt upright in shock and fury.  
  
Ill news, not fun to spread, so it falls Basil heavy to share. He slumps his shoulders, for a lack of food is serious indeed, "Dunnos, e's big. I 'as not seen 'im meself. I tells yer, in the distance I sees an the bones 'bout. Been lookin an searchin fer juicy meatsies... nuttink! Me old home..." the troll would sob if he could that much is clear, "Yer woods aint dat fun ennymores! But yer the king!" something dawns, "Yer gotsa makes it right! Yer kingdem!"

Basil holds up the tree, a slightly bruised pine, not really tasty by the looks of all those green needles, "I can not be a-eatin dis!" he whimpers, and a light tone of distress shimmers through, "It aint right!"  
  
Oliver is greatly stirred by these terrible tidings. So much so that he huffs himself around until he can get to his feet, snatching up a broken branch as he does so, and glares about the dark woods as if the intruder might be right there to hand. "Where's 'e at?" he shouts, "Bring 'im on! Eatin' Ollie's food. SHEEPS!"

Lost in his own gloomy thoughts and prospect, the huffing Ollie is not something Basil expects. So he almost - almost - falls over, tumbling backwards. He is quick to scramble to his feet now! "YUS!" he roars, not quite  
 grasping the situation, but that has never stopped a troll before, "SHEEP EATER! We gets yer good! Get aht of Oulie's kingdem!" like a full-fledged madman, the bigger troll whirls his mace above his head, eyes looking frantically for the big bad Sheep Eater.  
  
It is like a juggernaut. Two trolls, a conversation that piles on top of itself into incoherency, and an unfortunate breeze that shifts a tree at just that moment. "THERE!" Oliver howls, eyes bugging nearly out of his head as he spies the movement. He points with his club and leans forward to get some momentum up for chasing.  
  
"FILTHY BLEEDIN SNIFFERIN SNIVELLER!" shouts Basil, and instead of doing like Ollie, he charges straight ahead, "GRUBBY 'ANDS OF DAT FOOD! AINT YERS YER KNOW!" with vigor the troll makes his way to the shifted tree, his eyes not clouded by the dark of night, yet by the rage of mind!  
  
Basil is getting there first! This cannot be! Oliver's feet dig into the soft mulch of the forest floor as he thunders forward. "I'S GETTIN' 'IM," he shrieks. "YER GETS OUTTER TH' WAY, I'S GETTIN' HIM!"  
  
Basil skids and stops to look back at Olliver, "ARRIGHT BUT ONLY CUZ YERS THE KING! GET 'M DEN!!!"  
  
A smug expression descends across Oliver's face, and he smashes through the undergrowth past Basil, heaving his club over his head and bringing it down on the offensive tree with a resounding crash. And again! And again! Splinters and sawdust spray into the air as the main part of the trunk is pounded into the dirt.  
  
The noise of battle is like honey to a troll - sweet! Basil rushes after Ollie, mace first, and joins the fray with a roar! The tree gets a solid beating now ...  
  
Fury changes to glee, as Oliver pounds. And finally he stops, leaning on his club (battered, splintered, broken...) and panting. "We gots 'im," he decides, looking at the decimation they have wreaked on an innocent fir. "'E's good 'n squashed, 'e is. Won't be eatin' no more sheeps, now!"  
  
Basil nods fervently, "Good un! No one's messin with the Kings!" his gloomy mood seems perfectly over as he swings his mace across his shoulder and saunters back to the north, "Now 'e's gone I is gonna find me sum proper food!" he announces, "Gotter 'urry!" Not waiting for Ollie to make up his mind Basil makes a run for it, pounding at a steady pace into the night.  
  
Yellow, venomous eyes gleam from the edge of the black, tree-infested forest, watching the 'fight' and Basil's departure, filling the void of the darkness with the presence of a local uruk. Leaping out from the undergrowth, the creature crawls warily towards the remaining troll. One eyebrow raised curiously, and the other philosophically lowered, he looks up at Ollie. "What was that all about?"  
  
"I squashed 'im good," Oliver replies with great satisfaction. He surveys the wreckage proudly. "Won't steal no more of Ollie's sheeps." A thought turns his great head towards the orc and he eyes it suspiciously. "Yer isn't stealin' me foods, is yer?" he rumbles, leaning forward and sniffing loudly.

Hands raised, palms facing Ollie, the orc takes a steps back a couple of feet. Eyeing the splintered remains of an unfortunate tree who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, Ruk'Khaz gulps. "No, no, I wouldn't dare, I wouldn't..."  Shifting the balance of his arched eyebrows from one to the other, in accordance with new thoughts sieving through his skull. "But I know who does, yes, I do..." A mischivous smile spreads across his blood-stained lips...  
  
Luckily for the orc, Oliver doesn't smell any fresh meat anywhere about his person. He settles back, wriggling his back comfortably against a large tree trunk, and then his eyes narrow. "Yer does?" His flat face swings around, peering through the darkness in search of the miscreant. "Oo??"  
  
Gleaming with pride, the mercenary taps his fingers, overwhelmed by his genius. "Why, yes I do... there's this band of gobbers, bad critters, about my height..." Pausing for a split-second, he coughs, and continues. "I mean... a little shorter, and not as impressive as me... but you get my point. I's seen them hangin' out by yer cattle. Lickin' their lips 'n all that. Yeeeessss... very suspicious..."  
  
Oliver listens closely, leaning farther and farther forward with each word, his head nodding up and down. "'Bout yer ... wha's hite?" he asks, interrupted in following the description of the thieves. "Is it tasty?" He licks his own lips, and swallows noisily. "Good with saahl?"  
  
Fighting desperately to keep a straight face, Ruk'Khaz steps onto his toes and whispers directly into one of the troll's ears. "Very tasty. Fresh off the pan, spiced with... saahl... nice, yes, yes, it is... and, uh, hite's 'e number o' squirls one is, y'know, like... upwards..." Spanning his arms vertically, the uruk attempts to explain this abstract concept of the second dimension.  
  
"Saahl," Oliver says, a blissful smile spreading across his craggy, unlovely face. A ribbon of drool hangs from fat lips. "Pans..." He gives himself over to daydreams of Something Unnamed cooked to rotten perfection and seasoned with salt; when the orc's odd gestures catch his attention. For a minute, he watches, puzzled. "Yer is sick?" he asks then, a gleam of hope entering his beady eyes.  
  
The uruk's smile fades, and joy turns to fear as Ollie's hungry eyes inspect his meaty bones. "Well no, I's not... or actually, yes, I is... but if you's eats me, you's get sick too, and die... and then..." He pauses, and claps his hands together with a loud, shocking thump: "No more sheeps..!"  
  
"Sick," Oliver repeats, reaching out a fore-finger to poke at the orc's stomach. "Yer is..." He startles backward at the abrupt slapping sound, banging his head against the tree behind him. "OW!" Grumpily rubbing one hand over his skull, he returns his attention to more important matters. "Where is sheep stealers?" the troll demands. "Where is sheeps?"  
  
Looking eastwards, Ruk'Khaz says, "Not now... 'e sun's comin', you's and me's better getting outta here... but soon, troll, soon... you's getting your... sheep-stealers!" Cackling, the orc steps back and turns away, walking towards the sanctuary of the dark forest.  
  
This is a warning that no troll would ever ignore, not even for food. Oliver drops his hand and stares skyward nervously. And then, without another word, he shoves himself upright and makes a beeline for the nearest cave. Sheep and their thieves will have to wait until another night.


End file.
